


In Lonely Exile

by MountainKestrel



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 1872, Marvel Secret Wars Battleworlds
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Feels, Catholic Imagery, Catholic Steve Rogers, Christmas, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hymns, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28100763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MountainKestrel/pseuds/MountainKestrel
Summary: Nine nights before Christmas, Steve comes to understand a little more about the ghosts that haunt Tony.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	In Lonely Exile

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you a thousand times over to [elwenyere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwenyere/pseuds/elwenyere), whose cheering and beta made this story so very wonderful! Thank you also to [ChocolateCapCookie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocolateCapCookie/pseuds/ChocolateCapCookie) and [melmel_79](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melmel_79/pseuds/melmel_79) for their cheer reading!! The title comes from the Christmas hymn “O Come O Come Emmanuel.”
> 
> I’m on Discord as musicalla#7701. I’m always happy to chat if you want to say hi! I spend almost all of my time on the Put on the Suit (18+) Stony server, which is a wonderful, supportive place full of fantastic creators.

The moon hung high and full over the desert when Steve was pulled from a deep and dreamless sleep. Buried under a pile of blankets, he lay in his bed, warm and comfortable, somewhere between asleep and awake. His thoughts circled around themselves lazily, and he was unable to get a hold of them as they blew across the edges of his mind like dust across the open space around Timely every time he tried to focus on them.

He became aware of a sound reverberating through the back part of the courthouse where he lived: a small room, with a dresser and a water basin in one corner where he made his ablutions, the bed tucked under the window, and a wood-burning stove in the corner where he did his cooking with a small table and two chairs next to it. Steve rolled onto his side, where he could see the embers from the stove glowing hot in reds and yellows, the heat radiating off them in time to his breathing.

The entire world seemed to be waiting, holding its breath, and the anticipation permeated Steve’s awareness even in his exhaustion. He blinked slowly in the dark, his eyes focusing on the only light in the room as it danced within the stove, the light and shadows flickering across one wall, up onto the ceiling. Steve could tell it was late by the almost absoluteness of the darkness enveloping him. There was no light coming from under the door that led into the courtroom itself, no light filtering in around the edges of the blankets he’d hung over the windows to hold in the warmth. The darkness even seemed to crowd in on the fire in the stove, as though it could contain the flames as they shimmered, the coals undulating from white to yellow to red and back again, like waves on a shore.

_Ten days until Christmas,_ the thought flashed through his mind, there and gone again, like a shower of sparks when the sap in the firewood caught unexpectedly. But Steve came awake enough to realize it must be past midnight. _Nine days,_ his mind corrected itself.

Drifting for a few more moments, Steve hazily focused on the sound that continued to skitter across his awareness, too rhythmic to fit into his aimless dozing. With that realization, the sound coalesced, and Steve woke completely, unable to ignore the pounding on the window over his bed once he realized what it was. He groaned as he rolled out of bed, stifling a yawn as the noise echoed through the room, and pulled on his shirt and pants. Steve shoved his feet into his boots, and when he opened the back door, Natasha stood before him. 

She was in a nightgown, a shawl pulled tight across her chest, with a thunderous expression on her face. Her hair was braided, flung over one shoulder, with bright red curls hanging around her face, having escaped the braid while she slept. There was some kind of racket in the background, and Steve leaned around her to see where it was coming from.

“Stark,” Natasha explained shortly, following his gaze over her own shoulder. “He’s been doing it since nightfall.” She paused, pushing her face close to his, and she pulled his attention from the gaps between the buildings where the sound was drifting towards them back to her. “If you don’t make him stop, I’m going to shoot him to put him out of his misery and then shoot you for dereliction of duty.”

“What if I arrest you before you shoot me?” Steve asked without any heat.

She blinked at him slowly, her gaze considering. “You can try,” she said finally, her tone skeptical.

Steve shook his head, stepping back inside to grab his vest with his badge on it and his belt, his two guns hanging from the sides. The cold night air hit him like a slap in the face as he walked out the back door, and he wrapped his arms around himself, trying to hold onto the last vestiges of warmth he carried with him from his room. By the time he stepped off the porch, Natasha had already disappeared back into her own cabin, presumably to warm up in the bed she shared with Bucky. Following the faint strains, Steve realized it was a Christmas carol that Stark was singing — somewhat off key — at the top of his lungs.

Steve found him behind the provisions store and the Barnes’s cabin. Stark had a bottle in one hand, his arms flung open and his head tipped back as he yelled “Rejoice! Rejoice!” up into the sky, dressed only in a pair of pants and an undershirt. Steve couldn’t help but notice his tone missed merry by a long shot and fell somewhat closer to melancholy.

With a sigh, Steve approached him, his hands well away from his holsters, palms up and away in an unthreatening gesture. “A little early in the morning for Christmas carols,” Steve ventured, aiming for a light tone.

Tony’s expression flickered from despondent to a wide, fake smile as Tony caught sight of him, his expression easy to see in the bright light of the full moon. “Ten more days,” he replied, lifting up his bottle in a salute before taking a long drink.

“I think technically nine at this point,” Steve replied dryly, hooking a thumb over his shoulder towards the moon. “It’s definitely after midnight.”

His expression twisting, Tony turned away, facing towards the railroad tracks. “Where’s your Christmas spirit, Sheriff?” Steve didn’t miss that shift either, and he felt his own eyebrows climb at the contrast between Tony’s joyful singing — albeit forced joy, Steve had to admit — and his otherwise mournful demeanor.

Tony had always been mercurial, and it wasn’t surprising why. Steve had heard the story as a soldier in the Union army: the brilliant munitions manufacturer, torn apart by the idea that he’d created weapons that had caused a significant portion of the widespread brutality and suffering Steve had seen during the war. A man who, once he’d realized what his inventions were capable of, had shut down his factories and moved as far away from that life as he could. Every soldier had heard the story, and the opinions about that decision among the soldiers had varied from begrudging respect to abject betrayal. Steve had thought it noble, to take such personal responsibility for what had happened — but he’d definitely been in the minority.

A breeze kicked up, blowing sand and dirt between them, and Steve became aware of exactly how cold it was with the clear sky. He thought of his warm bed with its pile of heavy blankets, the comforting crackle of the fire in his stove, the memory of the dream he’d been chasing when Natasha woke him up. Goosebumps rippled over his arms, the breeze moving through the hair as it stood on end, and he wondered how much Tony had had to drink to not be feeling the cold. “Shouldn’t you be coming in?” he asked.

“Not sure it matters much one way or the other.” He took another drink and half turned, offering it to Steve.

Steve grabbed it from him, taking a sniff from the mouth of the bottle. “This is pretty fine stuff,” he said, a little surprised despite himself. The scent was vaguely familiar, the hint of wood and spice under the burn of the alcohol in his nose. He held the bottle out and looked at the label, which read Slane Irish Whiskey.

“I have a deal with Banner,” Tony explained. “He uses it for his elixirs, and I help cover the importation cost.”

“That’s a long way for a bottle to travel, all the way from Ireland.” Steve blinked for a moment as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, suddenly placing the smell. His ma and da had drunk Slane’s on special occasions, when they had still been able to afford such luxuries. Before they had been forced to immigrate due to the great famine. Before the drink had taken his da, and consumption his ma.

Shaking his head, Steve tried to brush off the sudden wave of vulnerability he felt, like he was five years old again. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder, the feeling that his parents were suddenly, inexplicably, very close. He could almost call his mother’s perfume to mind, an earthy scent with wood and saffron and a touch of vanilla. She’d only worn it every now and then, putting a drop at her throat and on each wrist, rubbing some on her palms to run it through her damp hair before she braided it for the day, so the smell would fill the room when she finally let it down at night.

Steve drew a slow, trembling breath and came back to himself, standing outside in the cold December wind, the full moon hanging above him. Tony was studying him, his expression shockingly clear for how much whiskey he’d already had. Shoving the bottle back at Tony, Steve jammed his hands into his pockets, feeling the back of his neck warm even in the crisp air.

They stared at each other for a moment before Tony started up again. “O come, O come, Emmanuel,” he sang, his baritone carrying easily through the still air, the sound haunting in the silence.

Steve shuddered, a chill going down his spine. He grabbed Tony’s arm and hauled him close, and Tony blinked, startled, at the sudden violent movement. Tony’s breath was warm on Steve’s skin, the sharp smell of the alcohol acrid in the air between them as Steve inhaled what Tony exhaled. Steve could see the reflection of the moon in Tony’s irises as they darted back and forth, focusing first on his right eye and then his left.

“C’mon,” Steve said, a little more gruffly than he intended, unsettled by the memories dredged up by Tony’s singing and the smell of the whiskey. He dragged Tony back towards the courthouse, but Tony came easily enough once he got his feet under him. Steve could feel the warmth of his body even through the fabric of their shirts, his hand almost hot where it was tucked under Tony’s arm.

It was as though the song and the scent had unlocked something in Steve; the buildings rose up around them like the walls of a sanctuary, the stars above their heads the vaulted ceilings. They came onto the main street between the Rand building and the provisions store. Glancing to the side as they crossed, it was like Steve was looking towards the nave, where the congregation should be seated. The feeling of Christmas mass, of the hushed expectation right before the priest started the liturgy, made Steve freeze in the middle of the street. Looking the other direction, Steve had to blink for a moment, the image of an altar with the aspe behind superimposed over the wooden buildings and the dirt road. Bowing his head, Steve felt the silence settled over him, and he had to resist the urge to genuflect there.

Tony’s breath came softly in and out, and Steve heard the quiet glug of the whiskey as he took another drink, the pungent smell drifting between them. When Steve opened his eyes, Tony was watching him closely again, the bright sheen of unshed tears glimmering as he blinked. Steve towed him the rest of the way back to the courthouse, steering him around to the back door and hustling him into the living quarters.

The room was still warm, but the fire had burned down to embers in Steve’s absence. He knelt down in front of the stove to bank the fire, carefully separating the coals from the ash. Feeding more wood into the stove, he heaped the ash on top, protecting the embers so they could burn through the night.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

Steve startled badly at Tony’s voice, having almost forgotten he was there in the comforting process of preparing the fire for the next day. He reached out a hand to steady himself, yanking it back when it came in contact with the hot metal of the stove with a hiss. Clutching his hand to his chest, he watched, wide-eyed, as Tony poured water from his jug into the washbasin and held it out. Steve eased his hand into the cool water, grimacing at the sharp contrast with the burnt skin on his palm.

“My ma,” he said through clenched teeth. “Every Irishman and woman knows how to bank a turf fire. She taught me.”

Breathing heavily, Steve huffed through the pain until it subsided to a dull ache. He looked up, meeting Tony’s eyes. There seemed to be understanding there, and something else Steve couldn’t read in the other man’s expression. “Want that drink now?” Tony asked. “I think I’m done for the night.”

Steve shook his head and looked away, the moment suddenly heavy and intimate, and he heard the sound of glass on wood as Tony set the bottle down on the table, the chair creaking as Tony sat down heavily. Moving away, Steve stripped out of his vest and belt, hanging them on the pegs hammered into the wall by the door.

While he was facing away, Tony started singing quietly to himself, the mournful hymn he had been belting outside. “O come, o come, Emmanuel,” he began, the pace a dirge, “and ransom captive Israel.”

Tony paused, drawing a deep breath, but instead of continued song, silence settled over the room. Steve glanced over, hands stilled in the process of unbuttoning his shirt. The other man was watching him, his expression hidden in the dim light, the occasional burst from the fire drawing Steve’s attention away from Tony’s face for an instant before it snapped back.

The room was warm, and the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Steve was aware that he _should_ feel uneasy in such close proximity with Tony. He could smell the alcohol as Tony breathed in and out, the sound carrying in the quiet, but he could also smell the faint hint of sweat and smoke and metal that always followed the inventor, as well as the pomade he used on his mustache and hair. Steve felt goosebumps ripple along his arms again, and he turned back to the stove. Using a reed, he lit a kerosene lamp. Tony’s eyes followed him, his gaze a palpable touch on his face and the skin at the base of his throat, where it was visible above his partially unbuttoned shirt.

Steve’s thoughts felt cloudy as he stood back up, placing the lamp on the table. Even though there were still nine days until Christmas, the air seemed thick with anticipation, a feeling he associated with the midnight mass on Christmas Eve. He hadn’t been since before the war — it was a ritual he associated with home, with Ireland and his parents, and after the war — well, he hadn’t seen much point. The comfort of the ritual had gone; it was hard to find solace in the birth of the savior after seeing the horrific ways people had come up with to kill each other during the war.

But the atmosphere in the small room — he found the silence soothing in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time, longer than he could remember.

Well — that wasn’t true. It wasn’t that he couldn’t remember; he simply preferred not to. The last time had been at his ma’s funeral mass, when — if nothing else — he’d found some consolation in knowing she wasn’t suffering any more.

Obviously, there was no incense, no homily, no procession or recession. No recitation of the Apostles’ Creed or the Lord’s Prayer. No kneeling and sitting and standing at regular intervals. But Steve was aware of the space around him like a tangible thing, the sense of safety in a large but enclosed space — the presence of the still air filling vaulted ceilings, of moonlight through stained glass windows, of a hand raised in silent benediction. The flicker of four candles, three purple and one pink set into a wreath being used to light the final white candle in the center. The comfort of each in turn: hope, and faith, and joy, and — finally — peace.

“Aren’t you going to put me in the cell?” Tony asked, breaking Steve’s reverie. Steve looked to Tony’s face, the afterimage of the flame within the lantern still burned in his vision.

“What?” Steve asked. He had no memory of Tony speaking, no idea of how Tony had come to be sitting at his table, Tony’s expression alternately in light and shadow as the flame of the lantern flickered in its glass.

Tony tipped his head to the side, obviously confused. He reached for the bottle of whiskey again and took a long drink from it. “I don’t understand you,” he said, his voice hoarse from the burn of the alcohol. “Aren’t you going to arrest me? Put me in the cell? For being drunk and disorderly?” Tony gestured angrily with the bottle towards the door leading to the front of the building, where there were two cells with the courtroom beyond. “Why are you doing this?” he said, the irritation clear in his voice.

Shaking his head, Steve turned his back to Tony. He struggled to get the last buttons on his shirt undone, head still feeling foggy, still smelling incense where there was none, hearing the words of the mass spoken by a hundred voices instead of silence. Stealing a glance behind him, he did appreciate that there had been at least one hymn — or part of one.

“You do this every year. I’ve been here six years since —“ Steve trailed off, before resuming with, “And you were already living here when I came. We’ve spent the night of December 15th together every year since I became sheriff. I figured maybe this year we try something different.”

The silence was transformed this time, and when Steve turned back to Tony, pulling his shirt off his shoulders and hanging it up next to his vest, Tony’s face was slack with shock, his eyes wide and his mouth open. He seemed to register what Steve had said and closed his mouth with a snap. “You,” Tony said accusingly, “are far too observant.”

Steve allowed himself a small smile at that. He settled onto the edge of his bed, the sheets and blankets warm from the stove, and put his elbows on his knees. “You drink a lot of alcohol, Stark,” Steve started to say.

“Tony,” he interrupted, and Steve was surprised to find a sudden vulnerability there. “Everyone calls me Stark. But I want —“ He faltered for a moment, dropping his head to his chest and picking at the label on the bottle, before correcting himself. “I’d like you to call me Tony.”

The protest died on Steve’s lips as he tried to come up with a single example he could use to prove him wrong — but he couldn’t think of one. “Well, Steve then, Tony. You only ever call me Sheriff.”

Tony huffed a humorless laugh to himself at that but didn’t say anything further. “What I was saying,” Steve tried again, “is that you drink quite a bit most days. But you only drink enough to end up here on December 15. Specifically at night. And somehow you never sober up enough for me to let you out until the 17th.”

Tony continued picking at the label on the whiskey bottle. Instead of answering, he continued on with the hymn, singing so quietly it was almost under his breath. “That mourns in lonely exile here, until the son of God appear.” His eyes lifted to meet Steve’s as he got to the chorus. “Rejoice — rejoice, Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.”

The notes hung in the air after he’d stopped singing. Steve laced his fingers together, still holding Tony’s gaze. “What are you mourning, Tony?”

Tony looked away sharply, and he knocked the whiskey over. The bottle clattered onto the table, shattering, and droplets of the alcohol caused small flares where they splashed into the lantern. The liquid ran across the surface of the table and dripped onto the floor, the _pat — pat — pat_ of it on the wood reverberating through the cabin in the silence.

Surveying the damage, Tony made no move to push his chair farther away from the table. Instead, he picked up one of the shards of glass and tapped it against the tabletop. “What makes you think I’m mourning something?” he asked.

Steve laughed quietly as he stood. He grabbed a towel hanging on the side of the dresser by the washbasin and knelt down by the table to sop up the whiskey. “Don’t play poker when you’re drunk,” he said instead of answering the question. He carefully swept the glass shards into the towel and bundled them and the towel up into a ball. Leaning back onto his heels, he looked up into Tony’s face, where his expression was lost to the shadow thrown by the lantern.

Tony turned back towards Steve and blinked slowly, his dark lashes fanned out over his cheeks when his eyes were closed. Steve felt it like a punch to the gut — the desire to pull Tony close, to shelter him from whatever it was that he was using the whiskey to avoid. It took the air from his lungs, and he felt the stillness again, the sanctity of the moment, the anticipation. The desire felt _right_ , however, in a way that few things in his life did any more.

_Is this how it felt to be Mary?_ he wondered. _To know what to do, to know the burden she’d been given to carry, but to know that it may very well destroy her life?_

He knew how this would go, the way he could recall Christmas Mass to mind, the contours of the service familiar in his mind, the Latin comforting in its constancy, the lighting of the candles, and the singing of the hymns. The prayers for intercession, the forgiveness of sins, the final benediction. How the exhaustion of the midnight mass was washed away by the joy, the relief of the cold air after leaving the warm church, the way the stars dotted the dark sky after the candlelit sanctuary. Steve could offer intercession for Tony, provide comfort and acceptance — a place for Tony to lay down his burdens, at least for a little while. A sanctuary where he could rest, warm and safe, until he could pick them up again.

Tony opened his eyes as Steve slowly stood up and placed the towel with glass onto the table next to the broken bottle. Standing before him, Steve felt his lips part, drawing in a slow breath. Pinching out the lantern, he reached out to slide his hand along Tony’s jawline and into his dark hair, running his thumb against his lips. In the darkness, Steve felt his senses heightened, and Tony’s skin was hot under Steve’s hand, his lips slightly wet, his breath warm as it washed over the pad of his thumb. Tony gave a small gasp and closed his eyes again, tipping his head ever so slightly into Steve’s hand, nuzzling into the touch.

“‘Come to me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest,’” Steve whispered into the dark, brushing his fingertips over Tony’s lips and onto the arch of his cheekbone. “Lay down your burdens for a while, Tony, and let me carry them for you — at least for tonight. That’s why you do this every year, right? You don’t have to be alone.”

Tony’s hands came up and ghosted over Steve’s sides, the heat searing through his undershirt, before they settled on his hips. At first Tony gripped too tightly, and he pulled Steve closer until Steve was standing between his legs. He burned his face into Steve’s stomach, and Steve’s arms instinctively wrapped around Tony’s shoulders, one hand cupping the back of his head, his fingers buried in his soft hair.

A desolate sob came from Tony, and Steve could feel the wetness of his tears on his abdomen through the thin fabric of his undershirt, Tony’s hot breath made damp. Steve gently scratched at Tony’s scalp as Tony cried silently, his face pressed against Steve. It crossed Steve’s mind that Tony must be used to crying noiselessly to be so good at it.

With that, Steve threaded his arm under Tony’s and gently lifted him up into his arms Tony clutched at Steve, his face buried into Steve’s shoulder. Carrying him over to the bed, Steve flung the covers away and set Tony down. Kneeling down before him once again, he carefully pulled off Tony’s boots and set them beside the foot of the bed. He carefully stripped Tony, one article of clothing at a time.

The light from the stove flickered across Tony’s face, the tracks of tears shiny in the dim light. Every once in a while, he’d draw in a deep, shuddering breath — still almost completely silent — and let out a soft sob of air. It was hard for Steve to parse the look in his eyes, but his expression was easy enough: desolation, grief, and, most strongly, loneliness.

Steve hadn’t helped many people out of their clothes, but he’d done it enough to sense that this was different somehow — infinitely more intimate. Something had broken within Tony, that much was clear, and the feeling of a sanctuary, of ritual and anticipation washed over Steve again. He could feel the warmth from Tony’s body in the fabric of his shirt as he carefully unbuttoned it and hung it over his, the faint scent of metal and smoke as he draped his pants over one of the chairs.

He eased Tony down into his bed and lay behind him, pulling the blankets over them. Tony was stiff, and Steve could still feel jerky movements of his chest as he took short, sharp breaths. Steve drew Tony into his chest, and Tony relaxed in his arms, He rolled over, pushing his face back into Steve’s shoulder, his head pillowed on Steve’s arm. Steve sheltered him in his arms, cocooning him in the warmth of the small room, their blankets a nest of comfort and safety. After a long time, Tony’s breath evened out, and his tears dried.

Steve was back to drifting somewhere between asleep and awake, going from one thought to the next like beads on a rosary, his nose buried in the hair at the crown of Tony’s head, when suddenly Tony spoke, startling him back awake. “Did you mean what you said?” he asked quietly, his breath hot against Steve’s chest. “That I don’t have to be alone?”

“Of course I did,” Steve answered, still half asleep. “You don’t have to be alone.”

Tony was quiet for a long time after that, and Steve’s mind drifted away. He drowsed, the echoes of chanting in Latin and Christmas hymns filling the air around him. The vibration of Tony’s breathing rumbled through him, reminiscent of the huge pipe organ he’d seen at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin. He could feel his hand clenched in his mother’s, both at the Cathedral and on the docks, before they’d boarded the ship that had brought them to America. He dimly was aware of Tony’s breath on his skin, the soft question again: “Why are you doing this?” But the emotion behind the words was too hard to grasp and Steve’s mind too far afield — in St. Patrick’s, or the cottage in the Irish countryside where he’d grown up, or on the battlefield at Gettysburg — for him to parse the words, let alone respond.

Steve came awake with the displacement of air, a sudden rush of cold around him. He heard Tony move away, his bare feet slapping on the wood, as he crashed into the table. Tony opened the door and stumbled down the staircase. Steve followed, wrapping the blanket around him to try to hold in some of the heat, to keep the feeling of Tony in his arms with him just a little bit longer.

Outside, under the light of the full moon, Steve found Tony on his hands and knees in the dirt, vomiting onto the ground. Coughing and retching, Tony gasped and sobbed between heaves until nothing but clear liquid came up. Steve gathered the blanket up to keep it out of the dirt and vomit and knelt next to Tony, putting a hand on his back. Tony glanced over, eyes watering, although Steve couldn’t tell if it was from emotion or the burn of the acid in his mouth and throat.

Steve rocked back on his heels at the expression on Tony’s face: shame, and the expectation of being rejected. Steve studied Tony for a moment, weary and aching for him, for the experiences that had made him expect nothing but dismissal even when he was so clearly hurting. He could see the pebbling of goosebumps on his back where his skin was visible, the fine tremor of shivering starting in the cold desert air. Steve could relate to those feelings: knowing he’d failed some critical test, the inevitable abandonment, the self-recrimination for not being enough. He pulled the blanket off his shoulders and laid it across Tony’s back.

Tony glanced at him, suddenly looking young and vulnerable. “Now?” he asked, his voice soft and hoarse, barely carrying to where Steve was next to him. “Now are you going to put me into the cell?”

“No, Tony,” Steve answered. He gathered him into his arms for the second time that night, lifting him easily from the ground. Steve carried him back inside and gently sat him on the edge of the bed. He gathered the washbasin, a cake of soap, and a couple of towels from the stand. Placing the kettle on the stove, Steve poured some of the water into it to warm it. As he waited, he braced his arms against the table, his shoulders bunched up around his ears.

Steve drew deep breaths in, his back still to Tony. The room was warm and felt safe to him, in contrast to the cold air outside. It was still the deep of night — well after midnight with a few hours left until the sun started to rise. There were thousands of questions that Steve wanted to ask — why Tony seemed to want to be thrown into the cell; why he was so resistant to a little comfort, like life wasn’t hard enough as it was; what was so difficult to face about December 16th that he’d rather spend it with Steve, arrested and in a cell, than face it alone in the back of his shop, where he seemed to prefer to spend most of his days. His heart ached for Tony, and he could feel the echoes of his loneliness in the expression on Tony’s face, his inability to settle, his need to push boundaries.

Steve knew that feeling well; it was easier to be lonely because he pushed people away. The other option — it was too painful to contemplate.

Was that the reverence he felt in the air? The solemness and the sanctity? The hush of Christmas Eve — the hope, the promise of a little joy and peace, so hard to find during the rest of the year?

Once the water was warm, he poured it from the kettle back into the basin and knelt before Tony. Dampening one of the towels and lathering up the soap, Steve gently washed him: first his face, wiping away the tears both old and new — then the dirt from his feet — and finally his hands, tracing the tendons along the back of Tony’s fingers before turning his hands over to clean the palms.

“Why are you doing this?” Tony asked, his voice reverent and rough. Behind Steve, the wood in the stove popped as a pocket of sap caught, lighting up Tony’s face in a small flare before it died back down again, still putting out slow and steady heat.

When Steve looked up into his face, Tony’s eyes were downcast, looking at where his hands were open, palms up, almost in supplication. Steve lifted first one and then the other to his lips, kissing his palms, his breath hot on Tony’s cold skin.

“When was the last time anyone took care of you?” Steve asked, his breath ghosting over Tony’s palm as he knelt before him, golden head bowed, hair shining in what little light the stove was still giving off. “Why shouldn’t I do this?”

A sigh brushed through Steve’s hair, and he looked up to find Tony’s gaze averted, his expression tight. Steve waited, hands on his thighs. Tony swallowed, his eyes flickering away. “My parents,” he said softly, finally meeting Steve’s steady gaze. “My parents were killed on December 16, 1850. A business rival decided they were going to take out my father. He was out riding with my mother, and they shot him off his horse. My mother —“ Tony faltered and swallowed heavily.

Trying again, he forced the words out. “My mother rode a mare, and she bucked at the sound of the gunshot. My mother was thrown, and it broke her neck.” Pausing again, Tony looked down at his hands, scrubbing his palms against his legs. He hitched the blanket up a little higher on his shoulders, clutching at the fabric. “My father wasn’t much to speak off — a drunk, harsh man who only really cared about three things: money, influence, and good whiskey. If nothing else, he gave me my good taste,” Tony said humorlessly, waving towards the table where the whiskey was still soaking into the wood.

"My mother, though,” he continued, his voice gentler. “I loved her and miss her every day. She loved Christmas — we would go every Sunday during Advent to light a candle to Saint Joseph. She would ask him to intercede for happiness in our family, as well as happiness for my life and my future family.” Pulling the blanket even tighter, Tony grimaced, the expression made harsh by the sharp contrast between light and shadow. “You can see how well that worked out,” he added bitterly.

The wood popped again, and Steve could have sworn he smelled vanilla and saffron. Just as he had outside, he felt the press of two people behind him: his ma off his right shoulder and someone else, another woman, off his left. The smell of bergamot filled his nose, mingling with the vanilla, with some kind of spice Steve didn’t recognize. He was close enough to Tony to feel him suddenly stiffen, and Steve watched him intentionally relax his hands, spreading them over his thighs.

It wasn’t hard to fill in the gaps that Tony didn’t explain: candles lit at Christmas for familial happiness, a father more interested in success than in his child, the retreat into the desert to get away from everything Tony had known before. Steve may have wanted for a lot as he’d grown up — it was poverty and starvation that had driven his family from Ireland in 1848, when he was only nine years old. But he’d never felt unloved, never felt the relief at the death of one parent sharply contrasted with grief at the death of the other. His body may have been wracked by malnutrition and constant illness — but at least he’d never doubted his family’s love and support.

But loneliness. Grief. Those were things Steve was intimately familiar with. They had originally come with him from Ireland, when he’d been forced to leave a home and family he’d loved to come to America. America, where he’d buried his beloved ma. Where he’d fought in the Civil War against men he’d worked with and trusted, where he’d seen such brutality and suffering he thought he couldn’t stand it anymore. The same loneliness and grief reflected in the face of a man who would rather drink on December 16th so he could spend the day with the local sheriff than face them on his own.

Steve stood slowly in front of Tony. Gently cupping Tony’s jaw, he kissed his forehead in benediction, breathing in the scent of his hair and the faint perfume his soap had left behind. Tony’s eyes fluttering shut, he sighed, his breath on Steve’s wrists, and reached up to wrap his hands around Steve’s forearms. They stayed like that for a long moment, Steve’s lips on Tony’s skin, Tony’s hands on Steve’s arms. The warmth of the room enveloped them, the soft light from the stove flickering over the walls and ceiling.

Tony pulled away first, and Steve saw the tracks of damp on his face reflect in the light. “Why are you doing this?” he asked one last time.

“Because you are worth it,” Steve breathed.


End file.
